


Ask, and It Shall Be Given You

by Elfgrandfather



Category: The Young Pope (TV)
Genre: Blackmail, Catholic School, Child Abuse, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:07:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29096256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfgrandfather/pseuds/Elfgrandfather
Summary: The education of Luigi Cavallo.
Relationships: Luigi Cavallo/OFC, Luigi Cavallo/OMC, Mario Assente/Luigi Cavallo
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Ask, and It Shall Be Given You

**Author's Note:**

> The fic no one asked for B) title is from Matt 7:7
> 
> thanks to the discord for the brainworm airing area

The air was balmy, unusually agreeable for this time of year. The last week had been spent tossing and turning in a sweat-soaked blanket, praying for an end to the infernal heat.

God had provided.

Through the open window, Luigi saw the uneven mass of his village, hewn out of the side of a cliff by far-flung ancestors. His mother told him their home was from Jesus’ time, and often, he felt inclined to believe her.

‘Focus.’

A gruff voice, a hand on the back of his head, tearing his gaze from the landscape down to the expanse of bronzed skin heaving below. Her breasts trembled with each deep breath, jiggling like the solid lumps of fat his mother trimmed off the extra cuts she got from the butcher. The two would disappear into the back of his shop for ten, twenty minutes. Luigi played outside, waiting.

The woman giggled. The pads of her fingers were soft on his skinny arms. Giulia. That was her name.

Focus.

Luigi draped himself over her, face neatly slotting between those blubbery mounds on her chest. Laughter, behind them. If he kept his head down, they wouldn’t see that his eyes were closed. She smelled of nothing, not even her natural scent, overpowered by the powerful cologne permeating the room. Deprived of sight, he concentrated on that, on the images it conveyed. Men in crisp white shirts, with crisp white smiles and tightly slicked hair, the kind of handsome boys he only ever spied on rare trips to the city, who winked at the cute country kid and tossed him half a pastry from their café tables.

The sound of a piano cut through shallow breaths. A crescendo, a choral chant, and then – a voice like honey, gentle. Umberto Bindi. _Il nostro concerto_. All the rage just a few years ago, even here.

_And you will find a piece of me in a concert dedicated to you…_

A lump in the throat, and a heat between the legs. Luigi shuddered, gripped tightly onto Giulia’s repulsive softness, spent himself. Cheers from the back of the room, clapping. His father’s calloused hand, patting his bony shoulder with rare pride. The woman stroked his hair, murmured comfortingly. He wanted to kill her.

Outside, even in the temperate air, even with his clothes back on, he felt cold. Emiliano poured a thimble of the spirits he brewed in his cellar. Luigi’s father beamed at him with an awkward, toothy grin. Standing beside each other, there was no denying their relation, a pair of tall, skinny birds of a feather.

‘You’re a grown man now, Luigi,’ said the older man, mussing his son’s dark curls. ‘You’re allowed a man’s drink.’

‘Thank you, father.’

The other men laughed. The drink was like a lightning bolt through his thin frame, cauterizing the wounds inside he couldn’t explain, turning the edges of his vision fuzzy.

The sky was vast and empty.

He was twelve.

***

The priesthood had chosen him.

When a visiting priest from Our Lady of Sorrows noticed his academic prowess and invited him to join the boarding school, Luigi jumped at the chance to escape the provincial life. His father resisted, at first, unconvinced by his only son joining a viper’s nest of limp-wristed intellectuals – but when everyone in the village helped his wife put the pressure on, his poor fieldworker’s back did what it did best, and bowed. Luigi would be getting top quality education for free. He could graduate and go into a respectable career in the city, find a wife, send money back every month. He wouldn’t join the priesthood. He’d tasted female pleasures already, thank God, and there was no way he’d deprive himself now – no warm-blooded Italian man would.

For his part, Luigi found his blood trending towards the reptilian.

***

‘I’m disappointed in you, Cavallo. You’re seventeen! Stealing _sweets_?’

‘I’m sorry, Father.’

‘What were you thinking?’

‘I wasn’t.’

Father Bassani sighed and gestured for his pupil to raise his palms. Under the watchful eyes of his classmates, Luigi complied, and though he’d rarely been hit in all his years at the school, he took the sharp lick of the ruler with nothing more than an intake of breath and a shaking of the hands. Five strikes, evenly distributed from fingertips to heel, then back to his desk. Before taking his seat, he made sure to meet the guilty eyes intently watching him from the back row, and flash his practiced smile.

In truth, he hadn’t stolen anything.

Luciano Marconi wasn’t particularly bright. He wasn’t strong or clever or given to public speaking, much less to any form of creativity, but he had two redeeming qualities. First, he was dazzlingly attractive. Luigi hadn’t been the first to notice; he knew the boy was frequently kept after class by two teachers with a sordid reputation. Thin, perhaps a little too much, and with an elegance that belied a sensitive, nervous character, which tied into his second pro: his kleptomania.

A vice which offered a wealth of opportunities.

The previous day, Luciano and Luigi joined a party of boys on a trip into town. Luigi never had money to spend on frivolous things, but he could usually talk his way into a sandwich or a cheap fountain pen from a classmate. The group decided to cap off the day with a trip to a candy shop, and never much given to sweets, he peered at the shelves of confectionary without interest.

Until he noticed the object of his lust sneaking a handful of wrapped caramels into his pocket.

He followed Luciano at a distance, watching him lift liquorice, gumdrops, and boiled sweets whenever he thought the shopkeeper wasn’t looking. Of course, Luciano’s nerves made him stick out enough to arouse suspicion, and it was only a question of time before he was caught.

Unless Luigi took the fall for him. Grabbed a handful of chocolates wrapped in noisy cellophane and marched out of the store with all the grace of a rhinoceros. The shopkeeper would doubtlessly tell them all to turn out their pockets, but the confusion would give Luciano enough time to slip the sweets down the front of his shirt, into his uniform jacket, anywhere discreet. It would be easy – Luigi was a skilled shoplifter, and he knew exactly what to do to give himself away, if he wanted to.

Why?

So Luciano would owe him.

After class, Luciano caught up with him on the way to the dorms, muttering something about a soothing cream his family sent him when he’d burned in the sunshine. Soon, they were sitting side by side on Luciano’s bed, in the empty dormitory hall, while the other boys played football outside.

‘Could you rub it in for me?’ Luigi asked, showing the welts on his hands with a wince. ‘It hurts to move them too much.’

‘Ah, er – of course.’

Luciano fumbled with the tub, an adorable little crease between his perfect eyebrows. Holding the back of Luigi’s right hand, he dipped his fingers into the white balm and set about applying it. Luigi made a little noise of contentment in the back of his throat. The relief was genuine, but the sound was exaggerated in order to evoke this exact reaction: Luciano’s cheeks were flushed, the hair on the back of his arms stood on end. What a darling, transparent little queer.

Luigi glanced towards the window, casual.

‘It’s polite to say thank you.’

The soft, circular movements on his palm stuttered.

‘When someone does you a favour. Isn’t it?’

When he glanced back, he met big, watery eyes, nakedly confused.

‘W-what do you mean?’

‘Why are you helping me, now?’ He flexed his hand, prompting Luciano to continue.

‘Um… it’s the right thing to –‘

‘You feel guilty. I hope you saved some of those sweets for me.’

Caught out, Luciano continued to rub the cream into Luigi’s nascent bruises, then quietly screwed thelid back onto the little tub.

‘I got scared,’ he murmured. ‘It – the whole thing made me feel sort of sick. I threw them in the river.’

‘That’s a shame. Neither of us got to enjoy them, and I got a walloping out of it, too.’

‘I’m sorry.’

The guilt was genuine. He sat all twisted up on himself, vulnerable as a hatchling. It made him less attractive, in a way, almost too pitiful. But they’d come this far. No use throwing this particular sweet into the river.

‘Thank you. For the apology, and the cream.’

His long, thin fingers found Luciano’s. The boy blinked, looking from their entwined hands to Luigi’s face, uncomprehending, with the shy passivity of one whose experience of affection was tightly linked with subservience to authority.

‘At least he’s used to it,’ Luigi thought, ducking down to press his mouth against Luciano’s.

***

When he spotted the folded piece of paper that had been slipped under his door, Luigi sighed.

After their first tryst that spring afternoon, he and Luciano had kept up something of a relationship. It neatly sidestepped having to find a new partner, especially as Luciano only blossomed with age, and the affair would run its course by the time they graduated, and moved on to higher education. During their last summer vacation, Luigi even accompanied his friend back to his family’s cosy holiday home, and spent many a pleasant evening with various parts of his anatomy inside his classmate’s stunning body, while Luciano’s parents slumbered in the master bedroom above. A perfectly nice send-off to a schoolyard arrangement. Luigi had grown fond of Luciano, as one might of a stray puppy, but he was glad to be rid of all the shed fur and drool.

He hadn’t expected Luciano to make it into the same school.

Their marked difference in academic ability ought to have been an insurmountable barrier, but Luigi had neglected to factor in Luciano’s particular _popularity_ among certain key members of staff. A good word and a recommendation was the least they could do, after years of taking what they wanted.

When he announced the news, Luciano’s eyes were bright, his grin irrepressible.

‘It’s a sign from God, Luigi! He doesn’t want us separated!’

What a sign.

Mercifully, they weren’t assigned the same room at university, but it didn’t take long for the elaborate love letters to start coming in. With no skill or imagination, they nonetheless exuded a frankness and naked adoration that made Luigi resentful. They spoke of divine love, peppered throughout with whatever verses Luciano had heard in lectures that day, and sketched a picture of domestic bliss in a provincial priory, serving the faithful by day and each other by night.

It made Luigi’s skin crawl. And maybe, deep down, it worried a burrowed sense of guilt like a nasty hangnail. With everything that he’d lived through, Luciano retained a cloying innocence that felt utterly foreign. Utterly unwarranted. Unfair.

In the room he shared with a quiet young man who kept to himself, Luigi picked up the folded paper and skimmed the contents. More of the same, tinged with desperation at Luigi’s lack of response. He shoved the letter in his bedside drawer with a grunt.

Would no one rid him of this troublesome priest?

***

Father Tedesco was a hard worker and a decent instructor, with a fatal weakness for a certain type of boy. Luigi knew about the rumours – svelte, dark-haired beauties were sure to pass his classes with flying colours. Luigi himself had enjoyed this boon, though the old man never so much as made a pass at him. He was well-liked among the students for that reason: regardless of his private thoughts, he kept his hands to himself, and that put him head and shoulders above many of his colleagues.

Luigi asked to meet with Tedesco, in charge of his academic year, to discuss an _urgent_ matter. Taking his seat across the priest, Luigi felt a squeezing of the stomach he hadn’t noticed in quite a while. The envelope burned a hole in his pocket. He’d thought this scenario through, from a dozen different angles, but something could still go wrong.

‘Father Punzi put your latest assignment on my desk, Cavallo. Very impressive.’

Luigi smiled. ‘Thank you, Father.’

‘If you keep it up, you’re on course for that placement in Rome.’

He’d traded his first submissive experience for a top-quality paper by his studious roommate, and found it to be something of an unequal exchange – fifteen enjoyable minutes on all fours, in return for a thirty page essay on Marianism as a response to feminism. He could get used to this.

After more idle chatter, he affected a sombre expression, and delicately deposited the stuffed envelope on Tedesco’s desk.

‘You know how close Marconi and I are, and it gives me no pleasure to bring you this evidence today… but he’s become – confused about the nature of our friendship.’ He had, of course, made sure to exclude any letters that referenced his own behaviour in unambiguous terms. ‘He’s a good man, Father, but simple-minded. I fear he’s setting down a dangerous path.’

Tedesco’s eyes flitted from the pages to Luigi’s face, with a slight frown. Luigi’s tongue was mealy, dry. The priest wasn’t an idiot. He might see right through this ruse.

‘Do you suggest he be removed?’ he asked, finally.

‘No, nothing like that.’ Luciano hadn’t vexed him beyond mild irritation. Plus, appearing magnanimous could come in handy down the line. ‘You’ve seen his work, Father, such as it is. If you have some time to spare, perhaps you could tutor him, and use the opportunity to… redirect his thoughts. You make truly rousing speeches on Christian friendship, and I believe other teachers may be too harsh.’

‘Luciano’s a sensitive boy,’ Tedesco agreed.

‘I believe his emotions have overpowered his senses.’ He sighed. ‘And I believe he was… interfered with by some less savoury characters at Our Lady of Sorrows.’

Luigi detected the minute twitch of Tedesco’s eye.

‘I’ll consider your idea, Cavallo. In the meantime, be patient with Luciano.’

‘Of course, Father.’

As he stood, Tedesco continued: ‘You’re a very mature young man, not to pass judgement on your friend.’

‘It’s my Christian duty, isn’t it?’

Tedesco nodded, and dismissed him with a curt gesture. Walking back to the dormitories, Luigi thought about the priest’s demeanour, the final moments of their talk. He was responding to Luigi’s prompts in all the right ways, but there was something in his eyes that hinted at suspicion. At a belief in a hidden agenda.

Thankfully, _his_ emotions overpowered his senses.

Luciano wasn’t won over right away. He lamented how much these tutoring sessions would cut into the spare time he could spend with Luigi, and kept up the letter-writing – at first. Luigi would occasionally corner him before he visited Tedesco, overwhelm him with kisses, and send him on his way with plump, red lips, a wanton air, and a frustrated libido. Over time, the letters became sparser, and he began to volunteer his time in Tedesco’s office, taking dictation and sorting papers. Soon, Luigi heard whispers of his sneaking out of the dorms in the evening, and not to visit him. When Luciano sat him down a few months later to reveal that he’d be staying on at the college after graduation to take up a secretarial post, Luigi had to fight hard to conceal his relief.

‘I hope you won’t hate me for this,’ Luciano said.

‘Luci, I only want what’s best for you. And Father Tedesco.’ Luciano looked caught out, ready to grope for an excuse, but Luigi put on his benevolent smile. ‘Don’t worry. I’m happy.’

And he truly was. He got this albatross off his neck, and he gave Tedesco all the motivation he needed to write a glowing letter of recommendation for the placement he’d requested in Rome, which would open doors that meant he wouldn’t have to toil as a village priest for too terribly long, if at all.

On the train headed north, he leafed through the letters he hadn’t handed over to Tedesco. He’d intended to toss them out of the window, perhaps as a tantalising collection for some shepherd to find, but he hesitated. They really were rather charming, in their naïve adoration. It had been nice to be so blindly followed. But there’d been no sport in it, no challenge. No excitement.

Organising the inciting incident in the sweets shop, and the denouement of passing him on to the priest – t _hat_ was a thrill. That’s what these letters reminded him of.

And that’s why they’d live not in the fields and on the train tracks, but at the bottom of his suitcase, for years to come.

***

It seemed proximity to the Vatican put everyone on edge, because studying in Rome was a shock to the system after the idyllic _flaneur_ existence of Luigi’s southern college. Here, being caught smoking resulted in hard physical labour, scrubbing stairs on hands and knees ‘til he could eat off the floor – and he half expected to actually be served his dinner that way, eventually. Rather than a boon, the high praise from Father Tedesco seemed to provoke venomous envy, and the Bishop in charge of his particular institution made a point to grind him into the dirt with more force than his peers.

Being kept under this oppressive boot made it hard to scout the weakest in the herd, to find someone to use as a footstool and hoist himself back up.

It was as though he’d never left the fields of Matera.

And that was unacceptable.

***

He hadn’t planned on attending his father’s funeral, but by the time the old man tripped under the business end of a threshing machine, he was so desperate for reprieve from the panopticon of Catholic studies in Rome that he leapt at the chance of a week off.

The body in the coffin could have been anyone’s.

The accident had completely consumed his father’s features, as Luigi noted when he arrived in the chapel for the vigil. Finding himself alone, he peered under the white cloth draped over the corpse’s head. Rail-thin and with strong, calloused hands, the dead man certainly had the correct build, but not much else. He wore a suit Luigi had never seen before, a wedding ring they’d had to force onto his finger, and a pit of mincemeat for a face.

It evoked not even the slightest emotion.

The following day, he joined the Father Andrea in the sacristy to assist with the funeral. The ancient clergyman had served their village ever since Luigi could remember. As he helped the old priest put on his vestments, Andrea smiled at him, and put one hand over Luigi’s black curls.

‘He was proud of you, you know.’

‘Thank you, Father.’

‘You’ve grown into a fine young man. It will be good to have you here when you finish your studies. It’s hard, getting novice priests out in the countryside… and your mother will be pleased.’

Luigi smiled. ‘I’m sure.’

The funeral went off without a hitch, and soon Luigi stood beside his mother to shake hands while the coffin was covered up. He was staying in the family home, but years of ignoring any attempt at communication from his mother had taken their toll, and mother son barely spoke beyond what was absolutely necessary. Her very nature offended something in him. Her maternal softness, her femininity – it grated like nothing else did, and he was thankful for the pervasive masculinity of his chosen occupation.

At the cemetery gate, far away, he spotted a woman in a shabby dress whom he soon recognised as the prostitute. Giulia. She never strayed into the cemetery itself, but spent a long time loitering behind a wall. At one point, he saw a small figure trot up to her, buckling under the weight of a heavy rucksack. A young boy with dark, curly hair, perhaps ten years old. He gave his mother a kiss, then darted off towards their home. He never looked inside the cemetery, never looked back.

That was the last time Luigi returned to his native province.

***

The beacon of hope presented itself, by chance, on a Monday afternoon.

Luigi had done due diligence to be less recognisable. Bad eyesight ran in the family, and knowing he’d have to wear glasses sooner rather than later, he’d procured a pair with clear lenses as part of his priestly getup. When he wanted to slip into civilian skin, he left the product out of his hair, left the glasses off, donned a leather jacket over a t-shirt and jeans, and wandered off to the parts of town a good Catholic ought to stay away from.

He was debating spending some of his meagre allowance on cocaine when, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted someone.

What was Gentilcore doing here?

Melding into the crowd, he followed the bishop to a greasy little café, where, through the glass, he saw Gentilcore put his arms around the woman working behind the counter, and quickly kiss her on the lips.

Ah.

***

Gentilcore was on one side of the desk, Luigi on the other. Photos littered the space between them: the bishop and his mistress embracing, clear as day – or as clear as could be, taken with a cheap camera through a storefront window.

‘What do you want?’ asked Gentilcore.

‘Not very much, Your Excellency. Relief from the unreasonable labour you pile on my back. Sterling grades. And a parish up north for my first assignment, in a city.’

‘ _Not very much_?’

‘Nothing you can’t do.’

Luigi watched the old man’s lips purse, twist, and there was an undeniable rush of warm satisfaction – until those that mouth settled on a calm, confident smirk. Luigi’s own serene smile faltered.

‘Come out,’ said the bishop.

A tiny seminarian emerged from behind a thick curtain, blinking in the sudden light. He met Luigi’s eyes with an expression that read ‘ _better luck next time_ ,’ and took his place by Gentilcore’s side.

‘You’ve been in Rome long enough to know it’s a village. I knew where you slithered off to on your days off. I wanted you to see me. And you did.’

Luigi stayed silent for a moment, then: ‘May I ask why?’

‘I knew you’d jump at the chance to get the upper hand, even by underhanded means. I _know_ boys like you, Cavallo. Puppies from rough backgrounds who think a sad story gives them the right to do whatever they want.’

‘I’ve always been a hard worker, Your Excellency. I don’t quite know why you’ve –‘

‘I’ve seen thousands of priests come and go. And I’ve learned to read the warning signs. The looks you give when you believe no one’s watching, those fake glasses of yours, fobbing off half your chores to some hapless colleague… a priest is a pillar of the community. He holds great power. And you’d be a _danger_. I don’t know that you even believe in God.’

Luigi said nothing.

‘Rome is a village,’ Gentilcore repeated. ‘Do you really think I could have a family within its walls without the Curia knowing about it?’

‘I believed they wouldn’t tolerate it, if they knew.’

‘There are tangled webs behind the scenes. You should know this.’ He gestured to the young man beside him. ‘Your young friend here witnessed you attempting to blackmail me. If you don’t wish to be defrocked and publically humiliated, I suggest you tender your resignation of your own accord.’

The young priest looked Luigi in the eyes, with an interested, sly expression. There was no particular joy, but he was clearly imbibing every last drop of the altercation, treating it as a learning experience. As inspiration, perhaps.

Luigi paused. Slowly, he reached in his trouser pocket and removed a lighter, which he placed on the table. Gentilcore’s eyebrow climbed up his forehead. Luigi then pulled another envelope from his inside pocket, and raised it between his thumb and his forefinger.

‘You do love your theatrics,’ Gentilcore chortled.

‘I think you’ll want your protégé out of the room for this one,’ Luigi said, with a smile.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘What could I possibly be talking about?’

It was the bishop’s turn to be quiet, smile wiped off his face.

‘You’re bluffing,’ he said, uncertain.

‘You said it yourself. I’m dangerous. Not to mention resourceful. How hard do you think it was to get your little wife talking, after I played up the role of the caring young priest?’

Luigi took the lighter off the table, and held it up to the envelope.

‘Here’s what we’ll do. I won’t resign, but I’m happy to take my orders early and take up a post far from here. I think Milan. And this disappears.’

‘Little _snake_.’

With his usual polite smile in place, Luigi bared his teeth and let out a little hiss. He watched Gentilcore sign the paperwork, make a few calls, then eagerly watch as the envelope and its contents burnt up in the metal wastepaper basket behind his desk.

‘Thank you, Your Excellency,’ Luigi said, putting his copy of the papers in his inside pocket. ‘I’ll return to my room to pack. I’m sure you have a lot of things to talk about with your mistress.’

The younger priest opened the office door to let him out, then followed him into the corridor, where he gazed at Luigi with genuine admiration. Luigi raised his eyebrows.

‘You’re wondering what his real secret was.’

The young man nodded.

‘I wish I knew.’

A blink. ‘You really _were_ bluffing?’

‘I did speak to the woman he’s seeing. She’s loyal, didn’t say anything, but I recognised something there – guilt, anger. Just as I recognised something rotten in him. Gentilcore says he sensed I was dangerous. I suppose we can smell it on each other.’

The admiration in the kid’s eyes was obvious. Luigi smirked, and reached out to wipe a fleck of dirt off his cheek – only to find it was a mole, very much attached to his skin. The young priest dodged away from the touch, and reflexively scrubbed at the spot with his sleeve.

‘You’re new here, aren’t you? That’s why he got you to witness. You’re still scared of him, and you’ll do as he says.’

‘That’s what he thinks.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Angelo. Voiello.’

‘Alright. Angelo Voiello.’ Luigi stuck out his hand, and Angelo met him for a tentative shake. ‘If you’re ever in Milan, let me know how Gentilcore’s doing. I have a feeling he might lose his grasp on things sooner rather than later.’

With that, Luigi nodded his goodbyes, and set off down the stairs with a spring in his step, leaving Angelo to marvel after him.

***

Truth be told, he’d forgotten all about Voiello by the time he was called into Rome for a meeting at the Curia. Forty years had passed, after all. As soon as he set eyes on that mole, however, the memories flooded back.

In Milan, he’d built himself a nice little fiefdom, and he wanted for nothing. But when Voiello proposed the title of Monsignor and the prospect of a few underhanded missions, Luigi’s interest was piqued.

When he walked into the bamboo forest and laid eyes on a certain lanky Cardinal with deep, hooded eyes and an upper-class affectation, it was positively inflamed.

***

‘How _dare_ you speak to me that way?’

‘What way?’

‘You called me a _whore_ , Cavallo.’

Deep irritation was carved in Assente’s brow. He took advantage of his considerable height, towering over Luigi with a powerful aura of displeasure, but from his worm’s eye view, Luigi could see the chinks in his armour. Assente pointed at him, shaking his hand to emphasise his words:

‘One word from me, and you’re gone. Not back to Milan, but to whatever sordid little hole you crawled out of.’

‘Then do it.’

Assente’s eyes widened, and his lips parted, searching for words – so Luigi jumped in, polite smile crinkling his sleepy eyes.

‘You see, Eminence, I only take calculated risks. If I thought there was a chance you’d report on me, I wouldn’t’ve approached you as I did. But…’ Luigi felt warm air rush out of Assente’s aquiline nose, as he feathered the Cardinal’s face with his fingertips. ‘You’ve been yearning for touch, and I believe you don’t want that touch to be gentle.’

He noted the bob of Assente’s throat, half-hidden by the clerical collar, and took a moment to enjoy the scent of cologne and cigarettes that now permeated the office of the Secretary of State. Like the front room of a bordello. It would vanish on Voiello’s return.

‘Well?’ said Luigi.

Assente’s long fingers found Luigi’s shoulders, but he didn’t go further. Didn’t chance a kiss. Perhaps it was some foolish sense of pride, perhaps it was his preoccupation with the little Spaniard. That was fine. Luigi gripped the back of Assente’s head and crushed their lips together, swallowing the Cardinal’s moan with a wicked grin.

He could make Assente forget his infatuation.

***

Luigi flashed a smile at the camera. Hidden among tchotchkes on his bookshelf, he’d have to check the quality of the recording later on, but he could always fall back on the photographs he’d openly taken on his phone, with Assente’s full knowledge and consent. At least, he presumed Assente had no objections – he’d been too busy polishing the toe of Luigi’s boot with his tongue to say much of anything, only feebly raising his eyes after the first flash caught his attention.

Anyway. Right now, he had a sleepy, fucked-out Cardinal panting in his bed, and that was a more pressing concern.

Supporting himself on his elbow, he dropped a tiny, chaste kiss on Assente’s parted lips, and noticed the minute smile that twitched on that mouth before Assente could repress it. He really _was_ a champion of self-flagellation. Handing those responsibilities over to another man must have felt like a true blessing.

And Luigi? Luigi couldn’t be happier. The constant give and take, push and pull, followed by inevitable submission – it made him feel young, and Assente being exceptionally easy on the eyes was a welcome bonus. The secret knowledge of the coming betrayal only added a delicious peppery twist to the affair.

Assente’s breathing was back to normal. His big, byzantine eyes fluttered open, lingered on Luigi’s for just a moment before swiftly shifting away. In those precious few seconds, Luigi saw the raw wounds of a life of self-denial, and it was almost endearing.

Almost.

Grabbing his robe, Luigi headed to the door, and looked back over his shoulder to say, ‘You’re bound to be thirsty after that performance. I’ll bring you something.’

‘Water?’

‘We can do better than that.’

‘Alright, but I’m not getting drunk. We have work tomorrow.’

He stretched, sighed, and stood up. Luigi hovered by the door, taking in the frail quality of that dancer’s frame, all lean muscle and gristle. Assente dug his cigarettes out of the pocket of his cassock and put one between his lips. He was affecting a careless façade, but as if on instinct, he shot Luigi a look before lighting up.

‘You’re welcome to smoke. You’re a grown man.’

‘Thank you, Father,’ Assente said, rolling his eyes.

Luigi smiled, and went to fetch the spirits.


End file.
